


If the Shoe Fits

by raiining



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: M/M, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-25
Updated: 2014-10-25
Packaged: 2018-02-22 14:09:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2510516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiining/pseuds/raiining
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil Coulson is a disillusioned former war correspondent who now writes sex toy reviews online for cash.  He's not quite sure how he'd fallen so far but, as it turns out, there are perks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If the Shoe Fits

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tawg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tawg/gifts).



> This short fic was inspired by the prompt and partial fill by Tawg over at http://tawghasa.tumblr.com/ I can't find the actual post now, but trust me, it was _hilarious_. My take is but a pale shadow, but I still had fun with it. THANK YOU to my fantastic betas Ralkana and desert_neon, who always makes things better.
> 
> (edit: here is the link to tawg's blog and fill! Read it because it's *hilarious* http://tawghasa.tumblr.com/tagged/the-au-where-phil-used-to-be-a-serious-journalist)

“In my coverage of the Arab Spring, I had often witnessed firsthand the power of the upward fist, the percussive chant, the swell of the crowd. I never thought anything would make me feel that way again. I was right. 

 

“I was wrong, however, in dismissing the _Arm Of Achilles_ as a gimmicky product unworthy of selection for this blog. I may be a disgraced former war correspondent who was escorted out the door of _The New York Times_ by five ex-military security consultants (I’ve heard they prefer ‘security consultant’ to ‘security guard,’ ‘mall cop,’ and, as I have personally been assured, ‘puppy dog,’ but I digress), but I do have standards. Well, that’s obviously a lie, I wouldn’t be writing sex toy reviews if I did, but I do have a deep seated desire to eat and am not pretty enough to turn tricks for cash. Where was I? 

 

“Oh yes. The _Arm Of Achilles_ might have a stupid name, but it is a handy (heh, get it?) tool that gets the job done. The smooth, medical-grade plastic is soft on the palms and nether-regions and retains lube well. A fact for which you’ll be thankful, as attempting to slide something shaped roughly like a human fist into your orifice takes a lot of assistance. It would also be helpful to have a partner, but, alas, I attempted this feat alone. I was successful, but I will not tell you how long it took me to get to that point, and I will emphasize that while it does resemble a human hand, the _Arm Of Achilles_ is not, in fact, the size of an adult appendage.”

 

Phil leans back in his chair and stretches. He reaches for the water he keeps at his desk, takes a sip, and then puts the glass down and continues typing. 

 

“There are cunningly depicted scars inscribed on the knuckles, meant to resemble an older individual and distract you from the suggestion of anything underage, I suspect. The effort is appreciated, but ultimately futile, as the amount of lube required to insert the device effectively eliminates any visual clues. Regardless, the toy is effective. It also vibrates, which delivers far more stimulation than I require. I would suggest keeping it set to ‘off’ or on ‘low’ until you’ve accustomed yourself to its very daunting presence. I fumbled the controls and nearly gave myself a heart attack. I’m not as young as I used to be.”

 

Phil decides to end it there, half-heartedly re-reads the words, and sends it along to his editor. Though ‘editor,’ in this case, might be a bit of a stretch - the man had not even corrected Phil’s spelling mistakes the first time he’d submitted a document. Phil had given in to the desire to once again see his work in print and so had screwed up his courage and clicked the review link provided in his email. He’d stared in horrified fascination at the lurid purple writing on the cheap black background, and then winced when he’d noticed the obvious spelling mistakes.

 

Good god. He truly had fallen to a new personal low.

 

Phil had abandoned the desire to see his name attached to anything ever again, but continued writing sex toy reviews because they paid the bills. At least, mostly. Phil had sold his condo, subletted his overseas apartments, and packed everything he owned into two rather unsteady cardboard boxes. He’d found a cheap apartment on the west side of the city, overlooking the bridge, and now paid his rent in cash. 

 

He still owned Lola, of course, and refused to give her up, but she was currently hiding in his parents' garage, under a tarp and with strict instructions not to let her be taken if the IRS ever showed up at their door. They were to claim she belonged to the neighbours.

 

Phil loves his car.

 

Seeing his review, atrocious as it was, with clear spelling errors had broken him, though. Since that day, he’s endeavoured to get at least _that_ much right. The fact that he’s writing _sex toy reviews_ is bad enough - he doesn’t need former colleagues googling ‘Phil Coulson’ for a laugh to giggle at the set of double ‘t’s’ in ‘heart stopping’ printed in eye-watering font next to the picture of a serpent-like double-ended dildo with green scales.

 

Though he’d had fun with that one.

 

Phil sighs, levers himself out of his desk chair, and pads to his kitchen. His fridge is - depressingly - empty, and while he _could_ cook, he simply can’t summon the energy to do so. Grabbing his wallet and keys from the bowl on the table, Phil makes sure his laptop is charging before he trucks out the door. 

 

Hands in his pockets to avoid the October winds, Phil meanders slowly down the sidewalk, eyes open for some new form of takeout he hasn’t tried yet. Thank god he can still afford to live in New York. If he’d had to return to Chicago, he might have screamed.

 

He doesn’t find any exciting food, but he does see that there are new bubble tea flavours available at the counter of the Japanese place he likes. Phil stands in line for an extra-large pineapple coconut because he’s decided today is that kind of day, and glances around as he does so. A new sign on a storefront across the street captures his attention.

 

_Clint & Natasha’s_ is a small store with blacked-out windows that looks more likely to contain naked videos than takeout menus, but, Phil tells himself, it could be useful for research purposes. The fact that the neon sign is sedate, the outside is clean, and the man stepping out front with a broom in his hand is nothing less than drop-dead gorgeous has little to do with it.

 

Phil pays for his bubble tea and crosses the street, mindful of the lights and the traffic, since getting hit by a bus in front of Hot Guy is not on his list of things to do today. Because of his caution, though, he’s late. He pauses to let a taxi go screaming by, and when he finally gets to the other side of the street, Hot Guy is gone. 

 

He’s probably just snuck back inside the shop. On the plus side, the sidewalk is clean.

 

Phil glances once more at the sign - bracing himself for disappointment - and opens the door. A discreet chime goes off in the distance. Phil takes a moment to blink and look over the interior.

 

It’s… not terrible. Actually, it’s fairly nice. Phil had snuck into a few ‘adult stores’ during his teenage days before being caught, wrestled out of his leather jacket, and packed off to military school. He’d actually completed basic training before the accident that had all but destroyed his knee, eliminating the possibility of a career in the military but freeing him to explore his interest in journalism. The knee had healed, well enough that Phil had been able to outrun his share of unauthorized militia, and it only ached when the weather was bad. His journalism skills… well, the situation with Pierce had ended that.

 

The _point_ is that Phil had wandered through his share of adult stores in his youth and has - unfortunately - returned to several as a man, since hands-on research has always stood him in good stead. The effort has convinced him that most purveyors of adult toys and erotica have absolutely refused to evolve beyond the seventies. He now buys most of his selections online, as the decor in the vast majority of physical locations has proven debilitating to his libido. 

 

Not so here, though. Instead of the usual horrible linoleum, full of cracked tiles or suspicious-looking stains, _Clint and Natasha’s_ has beautifully restored wood floors that had probably come with the building. It also boasts subdued but hardly obscurative lighting, open shelves covered in black satin, and discreet changing rooms tucked into the back. 

 

The store appears to be separated into sections, with movies and books in one area, and a small array of costumes and lingerie in another. There are also toys, quite a lot of them, of varying sizes and construction. One whole wall is devoted to plugs, didlos, fleshlights, and cock rings. A few more expensive selections are locked away behind glass.

 

Toward the west end, a black curtain catches his attention. A small plaque to one side reads _‘By invitation only.’_

 

Phil hardly realizes that he’s moving in that direction when a friendly but insistent hand catches him about the elbow.

 

“I’m sorry, sir,” says a man’s voice, “but we really do mean by invitation only.”

 

Phil starts. Six months of removal from the most dangerous parts of the world is clearly insufficient to prepare him for sudden, unexpected approaches. He breaks the man’s hold, steps to one side, and brings his hands up in a defensive position before he remembers where he is.

 

“Sorry,” Phil coughs, lowering his hands as embarrassment floods him. He hates feeling out of control in his own body. That’d been one of the reasons he’d turned to sex toys to begin with, because taking charge of his own pleasure at least meant he had control of _something_. 

 

“It’s all right,” the man says smoothly, extending his hands to the side. ‘Unarmed’, the pose says, ‘not a threat.’ The visual goes directly to Phil’s hindbrain and lodges there, so that Phil feels comfortable enough to straighten from his half-crouch. “Military?”

 

Phil shakes his head. “Not really,” he says, because he can’t claim that sort of distinction. Eager to change the subject, he clears his throat. “This is an interesting store. Is it new?”

 

The man - the _very_ good looking man, oh goodness, it’s Hot Guy, Phil realizes - grins. “Pretty new. We opened just last month, well, at the end of the month. Three weeks,” he corrects. His mouth sort of tucks itself sideways, like he wants to smirk but is too embarassed to. “Business has been going well.”

 

“I’m glad to hear that,” Phil says, on autopilot mostly, since the bulk of his attention is taken up with trying to categorize Hot Guy’s eyes - not blue, not green, not gold, but something intriguingly in between - and admiring his arms, which, dear god, look good enough to nibble on. He also has two silver rings on his hands but no wedding band, and the solid spike to his hair suggests, but only subtly, that he’d be interested in pursuing something with another man. Phil’s never had much success with his gaydar, and it’s gotten a punch aimed at his face a time or two (which Phil has dodged, because he might not be Army but he does have _some_ skill), but he’d be willing to bet by the way Hot Guy’s remarkable eyes linger on the open collar of his button-up - Phil absolutely refuses to write in his underwear, but he’s also not going to wear a tie to sit at his desk, because that’d just be stupid - that he’d be amenable to getting a drink or two.

 

Or two drinks and then a trip back to Phil’s apartment, because has he mentioned _those arms?_

 

“Clint,” interrupts a stunningly beautiful redhead with a careful gaze but a quirk to her mouth. “Is everything okay over here?”

 

“Yes!” Clint all but jumps, spinning around to face the woman. “We’re fine. Sorry,” he says, turning to Phil. “I should probably introduce myself. I’m Clint, and this is Nat. We run _Clint and Natasha’s_. Let me know if you have any questions. Are you here looking for something in particular?” He sounds a little breathless.

 

“I’m - not sure?” Phil hazards. “Maybe. I write sex toy reviews, actually. I’m always looking for new material.” He sticks out a hand. “I’m Phil. Phil Coulson.”

 

Clint gapes at him. “Phil Coulson? _The_ Phil Coulson? I mean, I knew you looked like him, but - wow.” He reaches for Phil’s hand. “I followed your reporting throughout the Baltics,” Clint says earnestly, shaking Phil’s hand, “and of course through the Arab Spring. You were an amazing war correspondent. And then, well,” Clint blushes, “you practically walk into my industry, maybe more than figuratively now, so.” He squeezes Phil’s hand, his blush deepening and running intriguingly down his neck. “I’m a big fan, is all I mean to say.”

 

Phil squeezes back. “Thank you, Clint, that’s nice to hear.” He winces. “I have to confess that I’m a little surprised you’ve been reading my reviews. They’re hardly my best work.”

 

“They’re hilarious!” Clint exclaims, and then winces when Natasha shoots him a look, and lowers his voice. He also extracts his hand, to Phil’s immediate regret. “I mean, I’ve been enjoying them, really. Our customers have, too. Many have recognized products we carry in the store because of your reviews.”

 

“Really?” Phil asks, frowning. He’d hardly thought he was that popular. “That’s odd.”

 

“Of course, Tony’s takeover might have something to do with it,” Clint goes on. “Or Pepper’s, I should say. The sex toy element is her brainchild, after all. Oh, I’m sorry,” Clint says, blinking at Phil’s confused expression, “didn’t you know?”

 

“Tony Stark of Stark Industries is taking over the sex toy companies?”

 

Clint laughs. “No, not entirely, though I wouldn’t put it past him. Tony’s always been convinced that anything someone else builds, he can build better. No, I just mean that, SexxxToys dot com, the company that hosts your reviews, has been bought by SI. You weren't notified of the change?”

 

Phil thinks back to the mountain of emails piling up in his gmail, along with the heap of proper mail he’s felt too depressed to sort through recently. “Maybe?”

 

Clint grins. “I’d suggest you check out the website you post to soon. You might find the quality has changed.”

 

That’d be a good thing, since the last time Phil had clicked on the site it’d been atrocious beyond words. “I’m glad to hear that. I - wait a minute,” Phil says, narrowing his eyes. “Did you say ‘Tony’ and ‘Pepper?’ You know Tony Stark and Pepper Potts personally?”

 

Clint shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “Yeah, sort of. I’ve known Tony on and off for ten years now, the Maria Stark Foundation helped - ” Clint looks away, ducking his head, “ah, you don’t need to hear my sob story. Anyway, Tony helped. Pepper’s the one who introduced me to Natasha.”

 

Phil's heart sinks. “Oh. Are the two of you are together, then?”

 

“Business partners only,” Natasha interrupts to say, leaning behind Phil to replace an item on a shelf. “I could not deal with him. He’s like a puppy.”

 

“I see,” Phil says, unsure how to respond to that.

 

“Natash _a_ ,” Clint whines, flushing again, his big eyes very reminiscent indeed of a small, furry animal. “So, uh,” he says, refocusing on Phil, sounding almost desperate, “do you want help picking something out to try?” 

 

Phil can’t help but smile. He’s never met an admirer before. Most of the people he runs into say, ‘Coulson? Phil Coulson? Weren’t you dragged out into the street?’

 

So, yeah. This is new.

 

“You know, I think I do,” Phil agrees, deciding he might as well strike while the iron is hot. “Maybe a plug of some kind. I don’t have a partner to try it with, and I’m not a particular fan of them myself, but I won’t ask someone else to take something I haven’t vetted personally.” He looks at Clint and lets his voice deepen. “Is there perhaps a brand you recommend?”

 

Clint swallows. “Yeah, I could - ” He coughs. “Could help you out. “ He leads Phil over to the back wall and picks up a brilliant purple toy. “I like these tough, ribbed dildos, myself,” Clint says, licking his lips, and staring at Phil instead of the product. “They’re very strong. Able to take some hard use.”

 

“Sounds good,” Phil murmurs, scanning the package. He can’t help the thrill of pure, unadulterated lust that shoots through him at the thought of Clint impaling himself on the long toy he has in his hand. Or, better yet, being helped onto it by Phil. “Any particular practical considerations I should be aware of?”

 

Natasha, who’s still stocking shelves, leans in again. “Clint has a repetitive use injury in his left elbow.”

 

“ _Natasha,_ ” Clint hisses. When he turns back to Phil, he’s bright red. “Sorry. We’re usually a lot more professional than this, I swear.”

 

Natasha, because she is clearly evil, simply laughs. 

 

Phil grins. “I’m sure you are. I used to be. I’m not so much any more. Would you like to have dinner with me?” He looks from Clint to the toy he’s still holding in his hands. “We could try that out together after.”

 

Clint stares at Phil like he’s everything he’s ever wanted and never had. “Yes, please,” he says, then shakes his head. “I mean, uh, yes. I’d like that. Yes.”

 

“Excellent,” Phil purrs. “What about Italian? Do you like Italian?”

 

*

 

It turns out, Clint likes Italian.

 

Clint also likes Phil. 

 

“Oh, god, yes, like that, give it to me,” he chants, red-faced and sweating, his amazing eyes wide, his incredible biceps flexing as he balances himself on his forearms with his ass pushed perfectly into the air. The first three-fourths of the dildo Phil had bought from him is filling up his ass, and he’s taking it beautifully, hole clenching gorgeously around the toy as Phil adds more lube.

 

Phil, who’s sweating nearly as much himself, and wishing he'd bought a cock ring because Clint’s broken cries are bringing him dangerously close to the edge, grunts as he rubs the lube into Clint’s skin. “There you go, baby. Take it. Take it all.”

 

“Fuck, fuck, _fuck,_ ” Clint gasps, his muscles spasming. “Phil, I - _Phil_.”

 

“What do you want, baby?” Phil croons.

 

“I want _more_.”

 

“Then you’ll have it,” Phil promises him, and starts giving him the last fourth. “Anything you want, Clint,” he adds, probably too honestly. “Anything at all.”

 

~ The End


End file.
